WE met two steamboats at New Madrid. Two steamboats in sight
at once! an infrequent spectacle now in the lonesome Mississippi.
The loneliness of this solemn, stupendous flood is impressive--
and depressing. League after league, and still league after league,
it pours its chocolate tide along, between its solid forest walls,
its almost untenanted shores, with seldom a sail or a moving
object of any kind to disturb the surface and break the monotony
of the blank, watery solitude; and so the day goes, the night comes,
and again the day--and still the same, night after night
and day after day--majestic, unchanging sameness of serenity,
repose, tranquillity, lethargy, vacancy--symbol of eternity,
realization of the heaven pictured by priest and prophet,
and longed for by the good and thoughtless!
Immediately after the war of 1812, tourists began to come
to America, from England; scattering ones at first, then a sort
of procession of them--a procession which kept up its plodding,
patient march through the land during many, many years.
Each tourist took notes, and went home and published a book--
a book which was usually calm, truthful, reasonable, kind;
but which seemed just the reverse to our tender-footed progenitors.
A glance at these tourist-books shows us that in certain of its
aspects the Mississippi has undergone no change since those
strangers visited it, but remains to-day about as it was then.
The emotions produced in those foreign breasts by these aspects
were not all formed on one pattern, of course; they HAD
to be various, along at first, because the earlier tourists
were obliged to originate their emotions, whereas in older
countries one can always borrow emotions from one's predecessors.
And, mind you, emotions are among the toughest things in
the world to manufacture out of whole cloth; it is easier to
manufacture seven facts than one emotion. Captain Basil Hall.
R.N., writing fifty-five years ago, says--
'Here I caught the first glimpse of the object I had so long wished
to behold, and felt myself amply repaid at that moment for all
the trouble I had experienced in coming so far; and stood looking at
the river flowing past till it was too dark to distinguish anything.
But it was not till I had visited the same spot a dozen times,
that I came to a right comprehension of the grandeur of the scene.'
Following are Mrs. Trollope's emotions. She is writing a few months later
in the same year, 1827, and is coming in at the mouth of the Mississippi--
'The first indication of our approach to land was the appearance
of this mighty river pouring forth its muddy mass of waters,
and mingling with the deep blue of the Mexican Gulf. I never beheld
a scene so utterly desolate as this entrance of the Mississippi.
Had Dante seen it, he might have drawn images of another Bolgia from
its horrors. One only object rears itself above the eddying waters;
this is the mast of a vessel long since wrecked in attempting to cross
the bar, and it still stands, a dismal witness of the destruction
that has been, and a boding prophet of that which is to come.'
Emotions of Hon. Charles Augustus Murray (near St. Louis), seven years later--
'It is only when you ascend the mighty current for fifty or a
hundred miles, and use the eye of imagination as well as that
of nature, that you begin to understand all his might and majesty.
You see him fertilizing a boundless valley, bearing along in his course
the trophies of his thousand victories over the shattered forest--
here carrying away large masses of soil with all their growth,
and there forming islands, destined at some future period to be
the residence of man; and while indulging in this prospect,
it is then time for reflection to suggest that the current
before you has flowed through two or three thousand miles, and has
yet to travel one thousand three hundred more before reaching
its ocean destination.'
Receive, now, the emotions of Captain Marryat, R.N. author of the sea tales,
writing in 1837, three years after Mr. Murray--
'Never, perhaps, in the records of nations, was there an instance of a
century of such unvarying and unmitigated crime as is to be collected
from the history of the turbulent and blood-stained Mississippi.
The stream itself appears as if appropriate for the deeds which have
been committed. It is not like most rivers, beautiful to the sight,
bestowing fertility in its course; not one that the eye loves
to dwell upon as it sweeps along, nor can you wander upon
its banks, or trust yourself without danger to its stream.
It is a furious, rapid, desolating torrent, loaded with alluvial soil;
and few of those who are received into its waters ever rise again,
support themselves long upon its surface without assistance from
some friendly log. It contains the coarsest and most uneatable